


Gimme

by messjon



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Brencer, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:10:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messjon/pseuds/messjon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Give me a break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Envy

Green  
  
Like Spencer's eyes, sometimes  
  
When he was just high enough  
  
And the fluorescent lights could only emphasize  
  
His poor, bloodshot lids  
  
  
  
But deeper  
  
Like my favorite t-shirt  
  
With a tiny hole in the sleeve  
  
From the time Bren grabbed me through the fog of a nightmare  
  
And I had brushed his rose petal lips with my fingers  
  
And stroked his face until he fell calm  
  
  
  
And yet,  
  
Harsher  
  
Like the broken bottles in the kitchen  
  
From when I was sixteen  
  
And scared  
  
And lonely  
  
On which I sliced my wrists once on accident  
  
But it felt good  
  
So I did it again and again until I couldn't stop  
  
  
  
They shared a joint on the ratty couch  
  
Plaid, ugly, like my great-uncle's kilt  
  
Beaten like his wife  
  
And the way he leaned in a little too far  
  
The way his hand rested on Spence's thigh  
  
Locked me into place  
  
A pawn  
  
A fool  
  
A ghost  
  
I had some broody words strung together  
  
I had a crush  
  
Spencer had energy, life, soul  
  
He had Brendon  
  
And I was green


	2. Malice

When I was younger

My dad would drink a beer

Down two shots of straight vodka

And polish off the whiskey 

Because that way he didn't have to think.

I tried to stay out of his way

I made myself as small as possible

But I couldn't disappear

So he waited on his enormous leather chair until I got home

And then he shoved me around

And threw a few punches

And kicked my shins

And like a little pussy I cried

So he only hit me more.

 

Every night I say,

'Ryan, you mean nothing.

You say nothing.

You do nothing.

You are nothing.'

Because that way I don't have to think.

That night, Bren enters the bus with a grin spread on his face

And his oak eyes bright

And his hand beating rapidly against his jeans.

I rise from the couch to piss

I'm empty

And he follows me.

When I see him perched outside the threshold through the mirror

Clouds gather

I turn around and place my frail hands on his chest

I haven't much strength but I'm fueled by aggression

I throw him backwards

And spit on his stupid, nice shoes Spencer bought for him.

His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't cry.

That just proves I don't deserve him.

Like father like son.


	3. Attention

Home

In the sterile-white shower

With a pen

And the sleeve of my favorite Beatles' vinyl.

I figured

Give them something meaningful

Unlike the wasted life

Of that dick, Ryan Ross.

 

 

Brendon went home with Spencer

Where they'd try acid

And fuck

And fall in love.

Jon went home with his wife

Where they'd watch sitcoms

And make love

And cuddle their cats.

I went home with the pills

Where I'd swipe an extra razorblade

And write a bullshit farewell note

And fall to sleep.

 

 

The drug bottle was orange

So I emptied it into my throat

And threw it the fuck out

Because I'm not having anything tacky involved in

The one goddamned thing I've ever done right.

I wore a plain, white dress-shirt

Because it will look so classy stained red

Next to my black slacks.

 

 

The sky outside is dark

And if you were to walk out of the bathroom

You'd find a cramped living room

With brown walls

And a brown couch

And a brown table

And absolutely nothing else.

The whole world is brown

With the petty small talk

And the shallow affairs

And the nine-to-five cubicle jobs.

I'm not leaving much behind.

The only thing I ever cared about

Was, too, brown.

Long lashed

And bright.

 

 

Caught in a haze

Everything was silent

Except for the soothing pulse

Of blood rushing gently in my veins.

I would be free

From the artificiality

From the bottom of the food chain

And best of all,

From the loneliness.

I need something withought language

Something unrestricted by the guidelines

Because lonely isn't a word.

It's when you've been sitting in a glass room your whole life

Watching the buzz

But unable to indulge.

It's that hopelesness, like a robot who responds

But cannot feel

At least on the surface.

It's like being an ugly puppy--

No one looks at you

Because you're sad

Which makes them sad

Which makes you sad.

 

 

I need nothingness.

 

 

With the first good cut, I think,

'No one will cry for me.'

With the second I think,

'How many will be glad?'

With the third cut I think,

'I should cut vertically.'

And with the fourth I think,

'Ross, nobody gives a fuck about you;

Not even when you're dead.'

By the fifth I'm not thinking

Because I'm beginning to lose enough blood

And I smile

And whisper,

'Goodbye.'


End file.
